It is, to my own mind, a singular confirmation of the depth of truth in the Quaker ideal, that it embraces in its application such widely varying degrees of spirituality. The “inward silence” which to the mystic means the gateway of the unspeakable, the limpid calmness of the mirror in which heaven’s glory is to be reflected, commends itself also to the sternest rationalist as the beginning of fortitude. And the experience of some of us (whom I may, perhaps, venture to describe as rational mystics) proves the exceeding value of the habit of seeking after inward silence as a real life-discipline. Not only at the times set apart for definite acts of worship—though, whether in public or in private, it is from the heart of this stillness that the voice of deepest prayer and praise springs up—but also in all the daily warfare of the Christian life, in encountering joy or sorrow, temptation or perplexity, the first condition and the highest reward of victory is equanimity. “Be not thou greatly moved;” “Fret not thyself, else shalt thou be moved to do evil.” There is no need to multiply the words of the wise on this head. We all surely have gone through times when “he opened not his lips” expresses the only possible attitude in which we can hope to win through. Silence and resolution, indeed, seem almost like different aspects of the same thing. And silence is assuredly an art to be acquired, a discipline to be steadily practised, before it can become the instinctive habit and unfailing resource of the soul. The wise Roman Catholic teachers all enjoin this discipline upon those who desire to learn “perfection.” Friends inculcate it rather by example than by precept, though abundant recognition of its importance is to be found in Quaker writings. But I am specially concerned with the practical results of our manner of worship; and I am bound to say that, to myself, the practice of quietness in life is markedly facilitated by the habit of joining in a worship “based on silence.”